Consequence
by Demus
Summary: The consequences for Crowley. Set just after the events in Good Omens. AU and rated for character torture plus some language. Dedicated to banana flavoured dragon. Might be slash...
1. Rescue

What happened to Crowley after Armageddon didn't happen. This is one version- not the best, but please be indulgent!

Disclaimer: I do not own Good Omens. Go…Sa…Man I wish I did…

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Crowley knew he was doomed. He knew it even before Hastur and Ligur turned up. Even after Armageddon didn't happen, he knew he was doomed. Satan would not let disobedience go unpunished. Rebellion was fine. But not against the Devil. Never against the Devil. And that was why he had not resisted when no less than five lesser demons showed up at his flat and dragged him to Hell. To the place that all fallen angels fear- the dark abyss of the punishment chamber.

Crowley knew it was useless to resist now. Not with Him there. He thought of Aziraphale as coils of dark energy pinioned him in place. In Heaven, Aziraphale would be forgiven. Somehow, although he would never have admitted it, that thought helped. Then it began.

This was not pain. No name as mundane as pain could ever accurately describe this ruthless ripping, tearing, shredding of every fibre of his being into a million and one pieces. This shattered the walls of agony and went straight out the other side.

His mind became strangely detached as his form writhed and screamed, changing shape until it was a shadowy vestige of his true demonic self. As the pain swamped him, he was vaguely aware of the mocking jibes of the demons that had gathered to watch the punishment. Or was it death sentence? Crowley was already dead. That never seemed to stop Satan. He had devised exquisite ways to mangle and deform a soul until it was nothing more than an empty whisper on the winds of the afterlife.

He did not want this. It seemed absurd to think it, but he did not want to…for lack of a better word, die. He liked existence. He liked the Earth and its insane inhabitants. He liked…he liked being part of an Arrangement. He liked being able to have intelligent conversations with a book-selling angel, to make witty but cutting remarks about, well, whatever. He liked Aziraphale. A six thousand year acquaintance that had slowly matured into friendship. The most basic opposites of all- Light and Dark. And they got on so well.

The thought train passed through his head in an instant, as white-hot agony snapped at its heels. This mutilation could last for an eternity.

And as he lay there, his body pulsing and convulsing, his racing mind caught something. A soft harmony amidst the discords of Hell. A gentle, flickering, candlelight glow in the infinite darkness. He craned his tortured consciousness, straining to catch a glimpse of it through spirit eyes. He found it and focused on it. It was cloaked, disguised in the Underworld, but Crowley instantly recognised it. Angelfire. Aziraphale.

No, it couldn't…his mind was slipping. It seemed that His amusement was at an end. It was time for Crowley to be extinguished. He could feel himself falling, slipping and falling into a dark abyss. He frantically tried to find a niche to cling on to as legions of pain clawed and yanked at him. His grip weakened and released, and he fell, plummeting into the deep chasm of empty minds and broken dreams and the shrieking cries of destroyed beings. The laughter of all the demons of Hell was knifing through him as he fell. He would never stop falling. His second Fall, and his last.

But as he fell, he felt angelfire light burst into flaming justice around him. He heard the enraged screams of dark being as the light burned them. He felt the burning sting of angel flesh against demon flesh as strong but gentle arms wrapped around him, halting his fall as pure white wings beat powerfully to pull a double burden upwards. And as his battered being succumbed to blackness, he was aware of the unfurling of black wings as the servants of the Devil gave chase. His last thought before he gave up the struggle was, "Nice thwarting, angel."

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Thanks for reading! Please leave a review or a flame! 


	2. Recovery

Disclaimer-I do not own Good Omens

Author's note- I stumbled across this whilst sorting my files and thought, why not? This will become slash if you want it to be. It is up to you, reviewers!

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He was comfortable. That was the first thing Crowley noticed. No pain here. His most recent memory was of lots of pain. Agony- white-hot and deadly. Why? He couldn't remember. The Dark one…he could remember Him. And all the demons of Hell. They were watching a punishment. Was it his trial? There were gaps in his recollection. Condemned. He was condemned. So he was dead. Was death supposed to be this warm and soft? It was nothing like all that fire and brimstone crap that disillusioned poets kept spouting. Stupid poets. They should burn in Hell. Oh wait, they already did- a lot of them were sinful bastards and easily tempted. Stupid poets. 

A cool hand brushing against his brow, a slight stinging sensation and a quiet, familiar voice murmuring something to the world in general interrupted his rambling thoughts. Ah. He wasn't dead then. He opened his eyes, squinting as light flooded in. He heard a gasp above him and a memory flashed in front of his eyes. _Angelfire._ Aziraphale. That would explain the stinging then.

Crowley forced himself to focus, even as his tired mind protested. "H'pp'ned 'Zir'phale?" he managed to hiss, wincing inwardly at his lack of control over his vocal chords.

The angel's face was radiant with joy. He had evidently been worried- Crowley could just make out big white wings still visible over Aziraphale's shoulder. They were ruffled and messy, odd feathers sticking out at random- the angel had a nervous habit of ruffling and shaking out his wings. They hadn't recovered yet. "Oh thank goodness. I was so worried about you my dear!"

Crowley's brow furrowed. Aziraphale was not answering his question. "H'pp'ned?" he said again, exhaustion breaking like a wave over him. He was in bad shape.

Aziraphale shushed him gently and stroked his forehead again. "Not yet, my dear. You need to rest."

Crowley tried to protest, but there was a flash of light and yet another burning sting, this time behind his eyes. As his eyelids began to close, he attempted and failed to glare at the angel. "Not s'pposed t' cheat, 'ngel," he mumbled, hearing an indulgent chuckle from his friend as he fell into Slumber's warm embrace.

This wasn't his second awakening. Crowley knew that. He had vague memories of being spoon-fed, asking the same question over and over, always being denied, and slowly gathering strength. Now he was able to stay awake for longer periods and think much clearer. He had even managed to re-assume his human form- now he actually fitted into the bed properly.

He wanted answers. He sat up in the bed and glanced around at the now familiar room. It was typical of Aziraphale to have a beige spare room. With pictures of flowers on the wall. And several cacti dotted about the room. Had he been a little stronger, Crowley might have considered intimidating one of them. He had attempted it earlier, but the damn thing had resisted. He couldn't wait to get back to his plants. They thought they were safe. Not likely.

He looked up as the door opened and his favourite angel walked in. Aziraphale smiled as his eyes met Crowley's and he carefully placed the tray he was carrying on the bedside table. The demon scrutinised his supposed enemy- the angel was nervous. If there were visible wings, they would be shaking. Crowley smirked to himself and delicately reached for the cup of tea set down beside him, sipping at it and watching Aziraphale settle himself in a chair.

"Angel, what happened?"

Startled by the question, Aziraphale fumbled and almost dropped the cup he was holding. Alarmed blue eyes glanced up at him and hurriedly looked away. Crowley, unperturbed, repeated his query. "What happened, Aziraphale?"

"Erm…well, you see…the thing is…"

"Don't even attempt to lie to me, Zira. You know you can't."

Aziraphale bristled. "I was not going to lie, Crowley. I simply do not think you are strong enough to hear the full story of the…event."

The demon sighed. "Do I have to prove it to you? Here, pass me that cactus…"

"My dear, I don't care how much harmless vegetation you can scare, I am not telling you how I persuaded Him to disguise me as a demon and get me into Hell in order to rescue you!" Aziraphale clapped a hand over his mouth, his eyes widening with dismay.

Crowley smirked. "Thank you angel. I knew I could get an explanation out of you."

The angel's beautiful blue eyes flashed, just for a moment, then cleared as he shook his head, chuckling. "I should have guarded myself against that," he said, ruefully.

The demon's smirk widened. "Yes, you should've. But, since you've let slip, thank you angel. I hope you don't ever expect me to return the favour."

Something like hurt flickered in the angel's eyes, then died out as quickly as it had come. "Of course not." Aziraphale turned away from him and sipped delicately at his tea. "I wouldn't dream of it, my dear."

Crowley was confused. Why that hidden flash of emotion. There was something about this that he didn't understand, still. Why had the angel done it? It couldn't simply be his 'good' tendencies, there was something more. Something…

He felt dizzy again. It was too early in his recovery to think this hard. Unless…

"Angel," he said, his voice beginning to slur. "Did you drug my tea?"

Aziraphale's face was radiant. "Yes I did. I'm surprised you didn't notice."


	3. Preferred beverages

Disclaimer: they aren't mine, sir. I swear.

Thank you reviewers: pendragginink, Ivycreeper, methodic madness, Alowl (I meant Crowley's demonic form to be the winged, fanged, devil form of nightmares), zimo, KarotsaMused and Erin McClanahan.

Another chapter resurfaces from the dusty recesses of my ideas file. I have no idea where I'm going with this, so apologies for the wait. And the shortness. I'm terrible, I know.

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Why. Usually followed by a question mark, this is one of the most poignant questions in the sphere of human existence, even when no other words shamble along after it. 

The word 'why' is so powerful, in fact, that several of the Earth's top scientists and businessmen have been working secretly to have it removed from the language. This would prevent the embarrassment of the scientists when GCSE students ask "Why does gravity work down and not up?" and "Why does hydrogen react explosively with oxygen?" and "Why don't you know the answers to these questions, aren't you supposed to be a scientist?"

No one knows why (there's that word again) the businessmen got involved, but there's probably vast monetary gain involved. If nothing else, the eradication of the word 'why' would certainly put paid to all the philosophers who swanned around the place. All they did was discuss facetious issues like 'Why are we here?' instead of asking proper questions like 'Why would we want to be anywhere else?' or 'Why would I want to buy the products of another company?'

Needless to say, this is a very long and rambling introduction to an event that could really have happened without three paragraphs of introduction. Therefore, ignore the above paragraphs and the chapter will begin again.

"Why?" Crowley said, his head resting on his hand, elbow resting on the pine table in Aziraphale's kitchen.

The angel didn't answer. There was no need for Crowley to elaborate on what he wanted to know. He'd been asking the same question again and again during his remarkably quick two week recovery, as there were only so many times that Aziraphale could get away with drugging his friend's various assorted beverages. The angel suspected that the demon was now pouring any offered liquid into the pots of the cacti in the faint hope it would cause them to lessen their resilience against him.

The demon hissed irritably and tapped his long sharp claws on the wood. "You can't evade me forever, angel."

Aziraphale sighed and put the kettle on, reaching for the teapot and teabags. Maybe he couldn't evade it forever but he certainly wasn't going to give in without a fight.

"I'll burn down your bookshop."

The angel ignored the threat. Crowley had been threatening similar acts of mindless violence and vandalism for years but had never got round to it, insisting that at the last minute he was always distracted by a really good bottle of wine. Aziraphale wasn't quite that gullible anymore- and besides, there was their Agreement. Burning down the other's property had been included in the small print at the angel's insistence.

He decided to change the subject. "Earl Grey or Lapsang Souchong?" he asked, not looking at his friend.

"Coffee," came the belligerent reply. Aziraphale sighed again and rooted out his French press coffee maker.

"Black or white?"

"Espresso."

The angel glared at Crowley, whose bottom lip was now protruding mulishly. Aziraphale promptly forgot whatever he'd been about to scream and stared. The demon, usually so suave and sophisticated, was pouting like a small child. It was almost adorable. Dimly, the angel registered the sound of smashing glass, the intrusive feeling of several rather large shards embedding themselves in his flesh and the iron tang scent of blood permeating through the air. He was only a little perturbed, when he looked down, to discover that there was blood staining his immaculate sleeves. _I'll never get that out_ he thought, distractedly.

Crowley, meanwhile, gaped at the dripping, suddenly clumsy angel and hissed exasperatedly, clicking his fingers. The blood disappeared, the coffee maker shards suddenly felt the irresistible urge to cling to each other again and the cuts all healed. The finger-clicking wasn't necessary, but the demon had always appreciated a little bit of a show. "What is wrong with you?" he demanded, annoyed.

Aziraphale blushed (technically an impossibility for angelic beings) and turned away to dump heaped spoonfuls of coffee into the coffee maker and douse them with boiling water.

The demon, feeling a little faint from using his power, threw a coaster at him. "Bugger the coffee. Tell me what's going on!" he commanded, rapping his claws on the tabletop again for emphasis.

"IthinkthatImighthaveaccidentallyfalleninlovewithyou."

Silence.

"Is there any chance you could repeat that in English?"

The angel covered his eyes with his hand and leaned on the counter as dizziness swept over him. "I think I need to lie down."

"That makes two of us. Come on, give me a hand," Crowley stood, shakily, and wrapped an arm around Aziraphale's shoulders for support, not noticing the angel's involuntary shudder and slight gasp. "And next time you're going to make coffee for me, please refrain from bleeding in it. That sort of thing hasn't been done since the fifteenth century."

"Yes dear."

"And you ARE going to cave in eventually. I have firelighters."

"I fear I'm not going to cave in if you feel you have to _use_ them."

"Shut up and take me to bed, angel."


End file.
